Subscribe: by Email | in Reader

Japanese Jokes -- Peter Porter

       
(Poem #198) Japanese Jokes
    In his winged collar
he flew. The nation wanted
    peace. Our Perseus!

    William Blake, William
Blake, William Blake, William Blake,
    say it and feel new!

    Love without sex is
still the most efficient form
    of hell known to man.

    A professional
is one who believes he has
    invented breathing.

    The Creation had
to find room for the exper-
    imental novel.

    When daffodils be-
gin to peer: watch out, para-
    noia's round the bend.

    I get out of bed
and say goodbye to people
    I won't meet again.

    I sit and worry
about money who very
    soon will have to die.

    I consider it
my duty to be old hat
    so you can hate me.

    I am getting fat
and unattractive but so
    much nicer to know.

    Somewhere at the heart
of the universe sounds the
    true mystic note: Me.
-- Peter Porter
(for Anthony Thwaite).

[ sage, scribe and scholar;
translator of numerous
    Japanese poems. ]

"... [Porter's] main subject is the decadence of commercial western society, to
the analysis of which he brings a jaundiced and witty eye...
... the gnomic humour of these tiny poems is dry and abrasive...
... sometimes Porter manages to synthesize his view of the entire Universe into
a single sentence that seems so 'right' that we feel sure it has been written
before... "
    -- George MacBeth

"Elegist, satirist, art critic, historian of the imagination, poet of cats, and
the cities of London and the mind, student of the times and of Time."
    -- Sean O'Brien, Sunday Times.

    I can add nothing
to Porter's elegance, so
    I stop here - thomas.

A Code Poem For The French Resistance -- Leo Marks

Guest poem sent in by Vikram Doctor
(Poem #197) A Code Poem For The French Resistance
  The life that I have is all that I have
  And the life that I have is yours.
  The love that I have of the life that I have
  Is yours and yours and yours.

  A sleep I shall have
  A rest I shall have,
  Yet death will be but a pause,
  For the peace of my years in the long green grass
  Will be yours and yours and yours.
-- Leo Marks
One of those absolutely simple poems that one simply absorbs - I don't
remember ever memorising this, I just read it in an anthology and I've never
been able to forget it. What I'd like to know - which is partly why I'm
putting this out - is a bit about who the author was and when was it
written? And was it really for a purpose like the Resistance? Anyone who can
tell me a bit more about the poem or the poet please write in.

Vikram

In the desert -- Stephen Crane

       
(Poem #196) In the desert
  In the desert
  I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
  Who, squatting upon the ground,
  Held his heart in his hands,
  And ate of it.
  I said: "Is it good, friend?"
  "It is bitter-bitter," he answered;
  "But I like it
  Because it is bitter,
  And because it is my heart."
-- Stephen Crane
There are a number of persistent themes that run through Crane's poems.
Among the most noticeable are human nature, love and the exploration of
man's relations to God, religion, truth, and nature, mostly with a strong
undercurrent of irony. Whatever he is writing about, though, there is one
feature common to nearly every poem - it makes the reader *think*.

Crane is a master of the paradigm shift, the few words that suddenly twist
the reader's world view around, exposing paradox and uncertainty where
before was only smooth complacency. 'Zen' is a badly overused word, and I
won't pretend to know what it properly means, but Crane certainly fits the
public perception of what Zen should be - thought provoking, leaving no
assumption unchallenged, and with multiple meanings and dichotomies
coexisting in every piece.

A final note - the piece above is an excerpt from a larger work, 'The Black
Riders and Other Lines'. Like Fitzgerald's Rubaiyat, it is a series of
somewhat disconnected short pieces, but, again like the Rubaiyat, the pieces
take on a whole new dimension when read together - not necessarily as a
larger 'whole', but simply because each piece develops and reinforces the
themes, the images and the atmosphere of all the rest. A link to the
complete text of the Black Riders is included below.

Note: The poem was untitled, being merely verse III of The Black Riders; I
      merely used the first line as a title.

Biography:

Crane, Stephen

   b. Nov. 1, 1871, Newark, N.J., U.S.
   d. June 5, 1900, Badenweiler, Baden, Ger.

   American novelist, poet, and short-story writer, best known for his
   novels Maggie: A Girl of the Streets (1893) and The Red Badge of
   Courage (1895) and the short stories "The Open Boat," "The Bride Comes
   to Yellow Sky," and "The Blue Hotel."

For a complete biography see <http://www.rdlthai.com/ellsa_cranebio.html>

Assessment:

    After The Red Badge of Courage, Crane's few attempts at
   the novel were of small importance, but he achieved an extraordinary
   mastery of the short story.

   [...]

   In the best of these tales Crane showed a rare ability to shape colourful
   settings, dramatic action, and perceptive characterization into ironic
   explorations of human nature and destiny. In even briefer scope,
   rhymeless, cadenced and "free" in form, his unique, flashing poetry was
   extended into War Is Kind (1899).

   Stephen Crane first broke new ground in Maggie, which evinced an
   uncompromising (then considered sordid) realism that initiated the
   literary trend of the succeeding generations--i.e., the sociological
   novels of Frank Norris, Theodore Dreiser, and James T. Farrell. Crane
   intended The Red Badge of Courage to be "a psychological portrayal of
   fear," and reviewers rightly praised its psychological realism. The first
   nonromantic novel of the Civil War to attain widespread popularity, The
   Red Badge of Courage turned the tide of the prevailing convention about
   war fiction and established a new, if not unprecedented, one. The secret
   of Crane's success as war correspondent, journalist, novelist,
   short-story writer, and poet lay in his achieving tensions between irony
   and pity, illusion and reality, or the double mood of hope contradicted
   by despair. Crane was a great stylist and a master of the contradictory
   effect.

        -- EB

Links:

   Complete text of 'The Black Riders and Other Lines' can be found at the
   Poets' Corner, <[broken link] http://geocities.com/~spanoudi/poems/crane02.html>.
   There's also a nice paragraph on why Crane is poetry, though, quoting
   from the site,
       "Crane himself declined to call them poems, referring to them
       only as 'lines'."

   There's a Crane site at
   <[broken link] http://www.cwrl.utexas.edu/~mmaynard/Crane/crane.html>

   and a nice biographical snippet at
   <[broken link] http://www.spanam.simplenet.com/crane.htm>

m.

Juggler, Magician, Fool - A Pantoum -- Peter Schaeffer

I happen to be a fan of ingenuity too...
(Poem #195) Juggler, Magician, Fool - A Pantoum
You mysterious jongleur, abstracted, absorbed, you slowly pace the street.
You stare, detached, through a curtain: silver balls in the air.

You slowly pace the street, tossing coins, cups, scarves,
silver balls in the air, making a skydance ---

tossing coins, cups, scarves, each in their separate paths,
making a skydance, chaotic, hypnotic;

each in their separate paths, dancing
(chaotic, hypnotic) the random paths of stars;

dancing through and around;
the random paths of stars, moons, comets, and the sudden flare-fade streak

through and around everything, the mystical hands tossing destinies;
moons, comets, and the sudden flare-fade streak of your hands ordering

everything. The mystical hands tossing destinies --- the feel
of your hands ordering the planets to dance.

The feel of chaos put in order. Tell
the planets to dance on your palm.

Of chaos put in order, tell the stars in their places in the lines
on your palm. Whirl

the stars in their places in the lines. You stare, detached, through a curtain.
Whirl, you mysterious jongleur, abstracted, absorbed.
-- Peter Schaeffer
Here's what the author himself has to say about his chosen poetic form:

"True, it's an unusual pantoum. Here's what Clement Wood says about the form in
his Rhyming Dictionary (Doubleday, 1936):

    "Ernest Fouinet introduced the Malayan pantoum into French versification,
and Victor Hugo popularized it in the Orientales. It is written in four-line
stanzas; and the second and fourth line of each stanza become the first and
third of the succeeding stanza. In the last stanza, the second and fourth lines
are the third and first of the first stanza; so that the opening and closing
lines of the pantoum are identical. The rhyme scheme would then be: 1, 2, 1,
2;   2, 3, 2, 3;   3, 4, 3, 4;   . . .   n, 1, n, 1. "

Notice that he says nothing about meter. Juggler, Magician, Fool began as a
strict pantoum in that the lines were correctly repeated according to the
dictates of the form; however, they varied in length. The author then discovered
that the poem read better with long lines than with short, so he eliminated
every second line break. This poem is the result. "

    -- Peter Schaeffer

Are we sufficiently impressed yet? Pantoums put villanelles in the shade -
they're far more complex, more constrained, and more convoluted. To write a poem
which is 'good' in absolute terms [1] while adhering to the straitjacket of this
particular form requires astonishing skill and ingenuity, and I for one confess
myself thoroughly impressed.

While on the topic of form (and I don't see how we can stray too far from it, in
today's context), notice how irregular the (implied) line breaks are - in
length, in content, in lexical position. It makes an interesting game, spotting
them and (even better) trying out various substitute lines/phrases.

Of course, I couldn't possibly mention form without bringing up her old
partner-in-crime, content [2]. The connection here is obvious: the repetitive,
almost hypnotic words mimic the juggler's whirling silver spheres as they trace
their convoluted paths; yet underlying them both there is a pattern, a cyclicity
- not, admittedly, an easy one to spot, but nevertheless one that's crucial to
the whole. And both words and objects contain (or seem to contain) stars,
galaxies, whole universes of meaning. The poet is both creator and created; his
identity merges with that of the juggler as he brings order to the chaos of the
written world. Wheels within wheels within wheels - intricate, and marvellous.

thomas.

[1] and I do think today's poem is a good one by any standards.
[2] did I hear someone say "Oh no, there he goes again..."?

PS. form vs. content, self-reference, poems about poetry... boy, I really struck
gold with this poem :-)

PPS. an afterthought: rereading Martin's comments to yesterday's poem -
"[Self-reference] is a not-too-unusual device in poems whose main focus is their
form - inverting the scheme of things somewhat, the content highlights and
reinforces the form, explicitly pointing out its various features."  - note that
although form _is_ emphasized in today's poem, it is not the be-all and end-all;
its primary role remains the reinforcement of content. This is an important
distinction; it raises 'Juggler, Magican, Fool' above the level of a mere
intellectual curiosity and into the realms of 'true' poetry.

Sonnet with a Different Letter at the End of Every Line -- George Starbuck

       
(Poem #194) Sonnet with a Different Letter at the End of Every Line
     O for a muse of fire, a sack of dough,
     Or both! O promissory notes of woe!
     One time in Santa Fe N.M.
     Ol' Winfield Townley Scott and I ... But whoa.

     One can exert oneself, ff ,
     Or architect a heaven like Rimbaud,
     Or if that seems, how shall I say, de trop ,
     One can at least write sonnets, a propos
     Of nothing save the do-re-mi-fa-sol
     Of poetry itself. Is not the row
     Of perfect rhymes, the terminal bon mot,
     Obeisance enough to the Great O?

     "Observe," said Chairman Mao to Premier Chou,
     "On voyage à Parnasse pour prendre les eaux.
     On voyage comme poisson, incog."
-- George Starbuck
Notes:
    N.M.: New Mexico
    ff: fortissimo (musical term, 'very loud')
    de trop: too much
    bon mot: clever saying
    French sentences:
      they travel to Parnassus[1] to take the waters,
      they travel as fish

  [1] Name of a mountain in central Greece, anciently sacred to Apollo and
      the Muses; hence used allusively in reference to literature, esp.
      poetry. -- OED

Rhyme scheme: aaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Today's poem is not so much poetry as verse. However, it is a wonderfully
ingenious piece of verse, and I for one am an unabashed fan of ingenuity. As
an added bonus, it's not only a poem about poetry (see previous theme <g>)
but a poem about itself. The latter, incidentally, is a not-too-unusual
device in poems whose main focus is their form - inverting the scheme of
things somewhat, the content highlights and reinforces the form, explicitly
pointing out its various features. On the down side, it's a slightly
overused technique, and one that is liable to topple over the fine line
between 'crafted' and 'contrived' - nonetheless, when well done it can, and
has, produced some delightful poems.

Biography:

  George Starbuck 1931 - 1996

  There's not much about Starbuck online - for a somewhat personal
  perspective on the man, see the obituaries at

  [broken link] http://wings.buffalo.edu/epc/documents/obits/starbuck.html

m.